


Remembering Richie Tozier

by Auggusst



Series: Stephen King's It Supercut [2]
Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Amnesia, Bittersweet, Bullying, Coincidences, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Mention of Physical Abuse, Mention of abuse, The Losers Club, appreciating richie tozier, loving richie tozier, richie tozier appreciation, soft losers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auggusst/pseuds/Auggusst
Summary: Times throughout the 27 Years that the Losers almost remembered Richie Tozier, and the way he impacted their lives even when he wasn't there.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh/Tom Rogan, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Everyone
Series: Stephen King's It Supercut [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524767
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	Remembering Richie Tozier

**Author's Note:**

> Companion to the Stanley piece! As aforementioned, eventually there will be one of these for each of the Losers.

Stanley Uris was cleaning out his cluttered storage room when he found the photo. There had been so many boxes to go through. His father had brought a trunk load of them down to Atlanta. He was selling their old house and buying an RV instead to travel across the country. There were things he didn’t quite want to let go of, that he gave Stanley to keep, given that his house had plenty of space. That was seven years ago though, and things were starting to get oddly cramped. Stan and Patty had built a collection over the years of odds and ends, and it was time to sort through what to keep and what to get rid of.

Stan didn’t mind the work. He liked sorting things, organizing them and cleaning them up. There was something soothing about the methodical task, where each thing had its place and made sense, like the way the numbers ran down the pages of his accounting book. He’d already been through eight boxes—old clothes, some books, a collection of his mother’s glass figurines, and some photo books. He was looking through a box of them now—leather bound and smelling of moth balls, but they carried a hint of the scent of his mother’s favorite candles, which were always around the house he lived in as a kid. He liked that smell, but it brought up some mixed emotions, as most things in Stan’s life did.

The next photo book he picked up was neatly labeled in cursive. It read ‘Stanley’s Bar Mitzvah,’ and underneath the date was written. The book was still in good condition, and the spine crackled a little as Stan opened the book, the pages stiff from the lack of use. He flipped carefully through the pages, exhaled in amusement at a photo of himself.

“Hey honey, come take a look,” he said, waving a hand towards his wife. She was across the room, sorting through some old records.

Patty pushed her hair out of her eyes and crossed the room, crouched down behind him. “What is it?” she asked.

“Me. I looked miserable,” Stan replied, holding the book up a little so she could see the photo clearer.

Patricia smiled and set a hand on his shoulder, looking fondly down at the book. “Miserable but adorable. You’ve always dressed impeccably.”

“Yeah,” Stan replied with a breath of laughter. “My style hasn’t changed that much.” He turned the page, passed a photo of himself next to his father, and turned the page again. The photo he found there gave him reason to pause, and he stared down at it, transfixed, Patty leaning over his shoulder.

It was him, in his suit, and there was a boy standing next to him, his arm casually around Stan’s shoulder, almost the same way Patty’s was now. The boy had black hair, thick glasses and a wide grin, matched with a more reserved, but equally content one from Stanley, and it was a direct contrast from the other photos in the book. He looked happy here—still nervous, still stiff with fear or dismay, but happy. It was endearing, or would be, if Stanley had any idea who the hell the kid was.

He raised a brow at the photo, took in the other boy’s features. Who was he? There was no caption beneath the photo to give any type of clue, and Stan dearly wished there was. They were obviously good friends, had to be. Stan didn’t let just anyone touch him like that. But if he was so close with this kid, why couldn’t he remember him? Come to think of it, Stan couldn’t remember much of that _day._ He knew it didn’t end as well as it should have, that it left him feeling kind of sad, but he wasn’t sure why.

“What a great picture. Who’s that?” Patty asked, pulling Stanley out of his thoughts.

He was kind of distressed as he replied, “No idea. He—I guess he must have been a friend but, I can’t—I can’t really remember.”

She thought nothing of it. “Hm. Maybe you should ask your father,” Patty replied, turning her attention back to the box she was sorting through. “I’m sure he remembers.”

“Maybe,” he replied. Stan wasn’t sure he would though. Wouldn’t he himself remember his friends better than his father? He tried to think back. The cover of the photo book marked the Bar Mitzvah in the summer of ’89. What did Stan remember about that summer? The answer unfortunately, was ‘not much,’ and it filled him with a kind of dread. Stan had a good memory. He rarely forgot things, and wrote down things he thought he would. His career thrived thanks to his resourceful and attentive mind, but this was one mystery he wasn’t sure he would solve, and it made him feel horrible.

He looked down at the photo again, at himself and a long forgotten friend. There was a sense of warmth he got from it, like he could remember the way things were between himself and this other kid, but it wasn’t enough to jog his memory, wasn’t enough to answer his burning question. Stanley sighed dejectedly, a long-lasting sense of disappointment filling him as he couldn’t find the answer, couldn’t remember the kid’s name, and got back to work cleaning out the storage room. He and Patty made the executive decision to get rid of about half of the things they sorted through, and it took several more hours of cleanup, the time frame lengthened by Stan’s periodical glances at the photo book. Patty thought he looked like he wanted to crawl into it, and made a comment saying so, which Stan lightheartedly brushed off, but in a way wished he could, if only to _know_.

The Bar Mitzvah photo book found a permanent place on the shelf above their entertainment set, and once in a while, when he was feeling down, Stanley would open the little book up, and look at the photo he’d found, and wonder about the black haired, bespectacled boy.

* * *

Bill wasn’t really a fan of comedies. Sure he enjoyed a funny flick once in a while, but it wasn’t something he went out of his way to include in his life. He preferred dramas, or adventures—something equal parts emotional and spectacle, something that made him feel strong and excited, that left him thinking about the story for weeks afterwards or could inspire his next story or a little sketch or two.

Audra on the other hand loved comedies, even the ones that weren’t very good. She loved to laugh, and did so often, with the exception being the time she spent at work, or if she was truly pissed about something. She dragged Bill out to comedies at the movies and consumed stand up shows on TV and the internet. She and Bill actually had separate Netflix profiles because he didn’t want her silly specials filling his list and she didn’t want his sad stories filling hers.

Once in a while though they found something to watch together though—normally Bill would refuse initially but find himself passing the television and something catching his eye, and before he knew it he was cuddled next to her on the couch, fully invested in whatever she was watching, even if it was comedy related.

That was how he came to watch Richie Tozier’s ‘Mother Fucker’ comedy special. It started predictably enough, Bill thought: A short introduction and a lead in to a relationship related anecdote, complete with vulgar words and comedic pauses and hyperbolic reactions. Bill didn’t think much of it to begin with. As the time went on however, Bill found himself laughing here and there, and then more and more, and suddenly there was a joke that made him _lose_ it.

Audra grinned at him as tears streamed from his eyes, and he was bent over the couch hardly able to breathe, his hand slapping his knee in joy, his breath coming too short, wheezy. Bill couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so much—even when happy, there was always some underlying frustration, some stress or residual sadness that dragged him down, made it harder to smile and laugh than it should be. Audra didn’t know him any different; that was just how he was, but she was pleasantly surprised now, laughed alongside him and the audience on screen as Tozier told another joke, this time in a silly voice and accent that wasn’t that good but somehow made it all funnier, and Bill thought he was going to die.

“Man, this guy is such a _Trashmouth_!” he exclaimed, wiping the tears from his eyes. The word seemed to set his mouth on fire though, and as suddenly as the joy and laughter came, it disappeared, replaced with confusion, and he wondered where the hell he’d heard it before. Bill’s lips formed a tight line, and his brows knit.

“Trashmouth? That’s a good one!” Audra replied, oblivious to his newfound mystery, caught in her own fit of laughter for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that,” she said, turning to look over at him.

But he wasn’t laughing anymore. In fact, he seemed sort of disturbed.

“Bill?”

Bill didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t seem to get his thoughts straight.

 _Trashmouth_.

He’d never heard anyone say that before, he was sure, but the word was familiar nonetheless. It was comfortable in his mouth, like the name of a family member or loved one, and he couldn’t decide why. There were words that came to him when writing occasionally: words that others didn’t use often or were a combination of well known words that described a mood or emotion or scene perfectly, but this was different and he knew it. He wracked his brain, trying to think back. The word seemed to repeat itself over and over, like a song, an annoying earworm, and over the next few moments it drove Bill to insanity until he could finally form a question.

“Do—have you ever watched this guy’s stuff before?”

Audra raised a brow at him. There was something in his eyes this time that gave her cause to wonder.

She shook her head. “No, I just found him today. This was in the recently added section.”

That answer didn’t exactly put Bill at ease. He felt like he was forgetting something huge, and no matter what he did he couldn’t remember it. His left palm felt itchy and his eyes drifted to the screen again, took in the big glasses and humor-filled eyes of Richie Tozier, his relaxed and slightly off-kilter way of standing, his strangely patterned button-up shirt. The comedian on screen told another joke.

_Trashmouth. Trashmouth. Trashmouth._

Had Bill seen him before? Maybe at a party or something? Or maybe the screening of his last movie? He had to have seen him before, right? There was no other reason why he would seem so familiar, why the word would affect him so much.

Bill would’ve considered the issue until it drove him mad, but Audra interrupted his thoughts.

“Pay attention, Bill,” she said, tugging on his shirt sleeve. “And forget whatever you’re worrying about.”

He was tempted to ignore her request, but in the end followed her direction, and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind, tried to enjoy the show without much thought.

He never did figure out where the word came from, but came to associate it exclusively with the comedian Richie Tozier, whose specials he and Audra watched eagerly each time they came out.

* * *

Bev Marsh didn’t remember Richie Tozier of course, but she remembered the spirit of him. Over the years, Beverly often wished for a friend with a crazy sense of humor, someone who could make a joke out of nothing and bring sunshine even when the world was gray, someone who stuck out from the crowd but in a good way, someone earnest and unapologetic, when she herself was so, so apologetic.

She hardly remembered her time in Derry, and what little she remembered mostly centered around her father, and the terrible things he had done. If she had friends back then, she couldn’t remember them, so they must not have been very good friends. After all, what friends would allow her to be hurt? And furthermore, which friends wouldn’t help her get the courage to stand up to her father? And to leave Tom now? She considered it sometimes. She loved him, she was sure, but sometimes she wanted out. Sometimes she didn’t feel right.

They’d been married a year now, and things were only getting worse, but with just enough happiness between the bad that she would forget all about it. Tom was good at that. He was good at convincing her that his problems were her fault, that he only hurt her for her own good. He was good at making her think less of herself, but doing it in such a way where she didn’t blame him, and when things were going good, she would think only the best of him. But there were plenty of times when she was unhappy, when she nursed a new bruise or stinging cut, sitting in her studio in the chair in a corner like a child, wishing for something better. There were times when she realized that things were wrong, and that she should get out. She wished for companionship then, for real friends, for someone to cheer her up and make her feel like she belonged. Beverly cried more as an adult than as a child, and she hated to cry. She was crying now, and couldn’t stand it. She hated the way her throat would get thick with emotion, the way her eyes would burn from the tears and how her nose would get stuffed up.

Tom had stormed out of the house after another tirade, which left her with a swelling arm and sore fingers from being bent back as punishment. The belt marks on her arm would surely linger for over a week, and her eyes stung from salty tears. Bev wished she were somewhere else, wished she were happier, that someone would be kind to her, to really love her.

“ _I love you Bevvie_ ,” she heard in her head, though the voice was unfamiliar. “ _Will you marry me? We’ll live in a pine-studded bungalow—a bung-studded pinealow. Five bucks is enough, sweetie, you and me and the baby makes three—“_

The words were so ridiculous that she laughed through her tears. A bung-studded pinealow? Who would come up with such nonsense? Furthermore, where had she heard it before? From _who_ had she heard it before?

Her sniffles dropped off, and confusion filled her instead as she wiped her tears. She tried to think back through the years, through her life, tried looking around the blank spots in her mind. There were so many blank spots. It must have been a memory though. She didn’t think the words came from a show or something. Bev wasn’t really the type to watch comedies, and she rarely watched TV at all when she was a kid. She sat there, tried to imagine the person behind her thoughts, wondered who had been close enough to say the words in the first place. It wasn’t an old boyfriend, wasn’t someone she had a crush on. The ‘I love you’ wasn’t a romantic one, that she felt in her heart. It was a love of companionship, of friendship—exactly the kind of love she craved most of her life. Sure she had some friends now, but they didn’t understand everything, sometimes felt distant. Whoever she was thinking of though, there was no distance at all. The person she was thinking of was a kindred spirit, someone she felt connected to in a way that went beyond explanation.

Bev sighed and leaned back against the wall. She closed her eyes, tried to reach back in her memory. She could hear the words echoing alongside other words, other phrases, but they were too low for her to understand. She could almost see the green of woods, feel the warmth of a summer sun, the joy of childhood. Well, not that most of her childhood was joyful, but there were obviously moments, like the one she was trying so desperately to remember now. When she tried hard enough, she thought she could smell cigarettes too, Winstons to be exact, but maybe it was just her imagination. There was a name on the tip of her tongue now too, or a sound, but it was unable to pass through her lips, like someone or something was holding it prisoner behind a big wall.

“That’s not fair,” she told her memory. It didn’t seem to care.

Eventually, she stopped trying to break the wall down. It should’ve made her sad, really, that she couldn’t remember, but instead left her sort of encouraged. It meant that at some point in her life, she had a friend, a great one, and maybe one day she could have a friend again. Beverly thought of Richie’s words often when she was sad, when she felt all alone. They cheered her up somehow, though she couldn’t remember who they belonged to. They reminded her that there were good people in the world, people who cared about her and didn’t use their fists to show it. There were people that worried about her, and not like her father, not like Tom, who worried “ _a lot_ ,” and maybe she would one day meet them again.

Although she couldn’t recall the name or face, Beverly Marsh counted the days until she could see Richie Tozier again, and hear him make her laugh again.

* * *

Ben Hanscom came face to face with Richie Tozier once. It was at a party in L.A, with a guest list over 500, and an insane amount of alcohol. It was New Year’s Eve, 2006, and Ben had been drinking for quite a while, and found himself stumbling around the villa. He didn’t want to come to the party, but his friend Jackson had insisted. Jackson, the bastard, had left Ben to his own devices not an hour into the whole thing though, which was equal parts freeing and horrifying. Jackson wasn’t cramming shots down Ben’s throat, but it left Ben struggling to have fun, to make conversation with strangers and to have a good time.

The alcohol made it easier after a while. Some girls had interest in him, and weren’t afraid to show it. His tie was undone and around his shoulders now, and the first two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned—one eager woman in particular had surely left imprints of her lipstick all over his face and neck, but Ben still found himself feeling lonely. She had gone back to her friends and he was sort of relieved; he didn’t want anything more to come of it. He didn’t want to pursue anything with her or any other woman here, so told himself he was thirsty and headed to the bar to get another drink.

Ben tried to avoid the party scene as often as possible. He was popular enough, he supposed, but the whole institution still put him ill at ease, made him self-conscious. He still remembered being a young overweight boy, remembered bullies in various schools, remembered countless hours spent by himself because no one wanted to be around him. He remembered the pressure of fitting in, still felt it daily, and he hated it. Now people wanted to be around him at least, but they weren’t necessarily the right people. There was nothing wrong with them per se, but Ben had trouble connecting with them, _really_ connecting.

No matter what he did, he always felt sort of disconnected from others, from the world in general. It was like he saw things different, or maybe cared about different things, and it was always enough to make him feel like an outcast, to feel like he didn’t belong. He had to belong somewhere though, had to make a real connection sooner or later, or so he told himself to keep from being entirely unhappy, especially tonight, when his vision was already bleary and the melancholy of 1am settled in.

At this party though, he came the closest to a real connection than he would for another 10 years, and he didn’t even truly realize it.

Ben was on his way back from the bar, was going to find some place to sit and sip quietly until he finally had enough and would decide to go home, when someone knocked him over. Ben’s drink went sailing out of his hand, and spilled all over the floor and the lower half of the other person’s shirt, the splash large enough to wet his own hands, and enough to rip him out of melancholy and drive him directly into despair. For an instant he felt afraid. The man who had run into him was taller, was surrounded by what Ben assumed to be friends, and it reminded him of being cornered as a child far too many times. Ben was familiar with the face of a bully, and unwilling followers, who were too scared to stand up to their leader. Ben was familiar with being punched or held down, being laughed at and spit on, and he really wasn’t prepared for something like that tonight.

He let out an instinctive apology, tried making himself smaller (which probably looked a little silly—he was around 6’1”) so nothing would come of the incident. He’d witnessed one too many bar fights, recognized the glaze of alcohol in the stranger’s eyes, and knew things could get out of hand very easily. He didn’t want any part of it.

As he expected, the man was less than happy about his shirt being ruined, even though he was technically the cause. He frowned at Ben, was working up an insult, his unhappy mouth opening to speak, but one of the friends he was with cut the tension with a joke.

“See Jake? I told you that shirt was fucking ugly! It was begging to get fucked up. You gonna change it now, shithead?”

The voice was familiar somehow, but Ben didn’t have time to fixate on it. He was more relieved at the fact that it seemed to placate the man in front of him, who rolled his eyes and squeezed his shirt to stop the dripping of alcohol.

“Real funny, asshole. At least my shirt doesn’t look like a clown threw up all over it,” he said, smiling back at his group of friends.

Some laughs were thrown about above the roar of the music, and Ben was thankful for it. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. ”Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He waited for the stranger to get angry all over again, but he didn’t. He put up a hand, waved it casually. “It’s fine, Dick here is right, this shirt is kinda ugly.”

“Woah! My name ain’t Dick, it’s Richie! But I will accept Big Dick or Monster Dong if you insist,” his friend replied, pushing his way through their entourage. “Anyway, big round of applause for this guy here! He did us all a favor. Shake his hand lords and ladies as we pass!”

Ben couldn’t get a good look at him; the lights were strobing and his vision was a little off, and Dick—Richie—was moving too fast. He swept up Ben’s hand, shook it heartily for a second or two, and pushed forward through the crowd, too focused on keeping the buzz going to notice the strange spark the hand contact left running through him, or to notice Ben’s stunned, confused expression as the man with the soiled shirt and his buddies passed by.

The whole thing made Ben’s head spin. There was something so weird about it all, about that Richie guy in particular, that left him needing to sit down before he felt any worse. All the alcohol he’d consumed seemed to catch up with him all at once, and he was sure he was gonna be sick.

Richie. Did he know a Richie? It wasn’t _that_ unique of a name, but it wasn’t one he heard often. It was familiar all the same though. Maybe there was a Richie in his childhood? A classmate or something? Or maybe the guy was famous? This was L.A after all.

Ben sighed, wiped off his drink-sticky hands on his pants. He couldn’t quite remember. He tried, really hard, but it was impossible. His head was swimming and it was late, and everything had happened too fast; he couldn’t make sense of it. But when he had time to think, he found the guy kind of charismatic, even if the things he said were sort of silly. Ben sort of regretted not properly introducing himself. Maybe he could’ve made friends with the group; maybe they would’ve ended up welcoming him, treating him nice, connecting with him in a way that he hadn’t felt for most of his life.

He felt an all too familiar sense of longing after the exchange, which followed him for years.

Ben didn’t go to many parties after that, save ones for his business or awards, but every time he did, he thought of the stranger named Richie, who had saved him from being pummeled into dust on the dance floor.

* * *

Eddie….had a type: A friend type, a romantic type, a type in general.

Not officially, of course, because he wasn’t willing to admit it in any capacity (both because he had not come to terms with his sexuality and it was not in his nature to admit his crushes in the first place, and most of them weren’t even crushes but people he wanted to be friends with, and furthermore, he was _married_ ), but the fact stood nonetheless. Any of the Losers could have told him he had a soft spot for messy hair, big glasses, and a great sense of humor, and they would’ve said so, if they had been around.

His prom date had been a girl with glasses, who was brave and funny, and who his mother did not approve of at all, so the two of them parted ways quickly, which made Eddie sad. He wasn’t in love with her, but he enjoyed her company, and had hoped it would be enough to placate his mother’s wishes.

His favorite co-worker at his first job fit the bill too, and eventually got himself fired for making everyone laugh too much and making a fool out of himself. He had been the highlight of the workplace, and Eddie missed him when he was gone.

One of Eddie’s classmates in college was the same: a guy who was supposed to be a senior already, but failed two different semesters, and was playing catch up now. He routinely got kicked out of class for his smart mouth, but once in a while his quips even got their professor laughing. Eddie had only seen him that semester, but hoped he’d have more classes with the guy.

Eddie wasn’t sure when this affliction, this weak spot for boisterous personalities and quirky looks began, but it quite obviously haunted him. It was sometime in high school that it started, he assumed, but that was just because he wasn’t consciously aware of the start, and he didn’t remember that much of his childhood. (That in itself was an issue, and one that plagued him on more than one occasion, but he tried to ignore it, because he didn’t see a way to fix it.)

Eddie was out one morning getting coffee and tea for Myra and himself when he truly noticed his little gravitational issue. The Barista was new— or at least, Eddie had never seen him before. He was tall, and his smile nice, and the way he joked around with his co-workers gave an indication about his goofy demeanor. His glasses were the most striking feature—they were _huge_ , looked a little ridiculous to be honest, but they looked good on him.

Eddie didn’t catch his name. He was too busy trying to look the other way while ordering, trying to ignore the way his heart rate sped up a little whenever the guy addressed him. There was something familiar about him, something that made the brunet’s palms twitch, and when the Barista laughed and handed Eddie his order with a well-placed joke, Eddie truly thought he lost his mind.

There was a flash image, like a memory, that struck him so suddenly he almost dropped the drink carrier and made a mess of himself. It was blurry, to be fair, but extremely vivid, enough so that he felt disoriented for the moment. He could see it all—summertime, wood panels, a hammock he thought, and someone standing across from him. The features were unreadable, but it was easy enough to see the frames of his glasses, the garish pattern of his shirt, his dark hair. The flash image made Eddie’s heart jump in his chest, and left him confused and a little scared. He muttered an apology for his narrowly avoided mishap, and rushed out of the café, drinks in hand, and fumbled a little with the keys to his car.

What the hell _was_ that? Who was he remembering? It was definitely a memory, not some type of hallucination, because of the way it made him feel. It was brief, just lasting a second or more, but made him feel warm and happy, in a way he was not used to at all. He tried to think back on his life, on his childhood, but couldn’t figure out who he had seen, who the unwitting Barista reminded him of.

Eddie couldn’t help but notice his type after that. He gravitated towards people with glasses, gave second looks to those with messy black hair, found himself wondering over and over who he couldn’t remember, who made him feel so happy, if only for a moment. He never found that happiness in his waking life. It was something unfamiliar, something long lost, and that made him kind of sad, made him wonder what he was missing out on.

Eddie may have gone out of his way a few times to conveniently approach people who he thought looked similar to whoever he was imagining. Some silly part of him secretly hoped, prayed, that he’d find that person in his memory, that he’d magically run into him one day and everything would come back. Eddie wanted that friendship, wanted that companionship, that… _love_. There was no other way to explain what he felt when thinking about the mysterious stranger. It was stronger than anything he had now. He had Myra, and his mother, who when together in the same room were overbearing, but besides them, Eddie didn’t have much in the way of friends, and despite being _married_ , the love he felt in his waking life was nothing compared to that single infinite second in his memory. His mother argued, as she always did, that he didn’t need anyone besides them, but that didn’t fill the void Eddie felt in his heart.

Eddie liked to wonder. He liked to pretend, liked to think of the vague memory whenever he got too stressed out, or whenever he felt at his worst. He wondered who the other boy was, how many hours they spent together, where the hell they were in the memory. He wondered how many more memories were buried, if they’d ever come back, if he would ever find that person again, if there was more to life than he was experiencing now, and if it could belong to him. He wondered if the person in his memory could ever belong to him. That was why he had a type, he supposed, even if it took him a long time to realize it.

One thing was for sure: Whether Eddie Kaspbrak knew it or not, his type was completely and utterly Richie Tozier.

* * *

Mike Hanlon thought about Richie Tozier a lot. Of course he did. Richie was one of his best friends, one of his only friends, even though he hadn’t seen the man in 20 years. At least, he hadn’t in person. Mike watched Richie’s Netflix specials, despite how bad they were. They didn’t start off bad; Mike loved the first few, and watched them a lot. But somewhere along the way, Mike could tell that Richie wasn’t putting his own twist on things anymore, that he was just going through the motions. He didn’t _enjoy_ it as much, and Mike started thinking that Richie wasn’t writing his own jokes anymore. They missed his unique perspective, and his special voices weren’t as strong as they used to be, and it made Mike kind of sad.

He remembered how happy Richie was down in the Barrens, telling them all jokes, making up voices and stupid stories. Mike liked how Richie could make anything a joke, even some things that weren’t meant to be. It put him at ease, especially when he was new. Mike remembered feeling a sense of belonging with the Losers immediately, but that didn’t stop him from being nervous around them at first. Richie changed that quickly. He included Mike in the jokes, in the fun, slung an arm around him like they’d known each other their whole lives. Richie shared his rock cassettes and his comic books, his cigarettes (which Mike always refused) and most of all, his love.

Mike thought Richie had an incredible heart, even if he showed it kind of different than other people. The more nicknames, the more teases and jokes Richie gave a person, the more he liked them, and that much was clear to Mike merely a day after they met. Richie was like a brother to Mike, a cool and equally embarrassing brother, who could be ridiculous or sometimes couldn’t keep his mouth shut, who’s enthusiasm sometimes went too far, but was always appreciated. With Richie around, Mike felt braver, stronger, and more comfortable with himself and in the world around him.

Mike thought about Richie a lot, and the wonderful complexity of his friend. He thought of how Richie could play the fool for the world, but was actually an intelligent and deeply thoughtful, _emotional_ person. Richie was smarter than he let on, got the best grades out of all of them, and when it really came down to it, knew how to read a room, knew just how to help someone. Richie had secrets, deep ideas and opinions, that he shared on rare occasion with the whole group, but instead often let slip to them one by one, so they understood, so they could talk about them.

He remembered sitting with Richie behind the library one day, as the black-haired boy tried in vain to keep his tears from slipping out. Henry and his goons had chased them all the way from Keene’s Pharmacy, when they were headed down to the Quarry. He and Richie had pooled together the money they made doing chores to buy a couple of pool rings for the Losers to share, an extra layer of fun for their special swimming place.

It would’ve been fun, but Bowers had to ruin it, like he ruined everything. Richie had a brand new shiny welt on his upper arm from the punch Henry landed on him, and Mike would’ve had the same, if he didn’t work up the courage to push back, grab Richie’s hand and high tail it out of there. Their brand new pool rings were lost, probably popped by the bullies, and their hard work was for nothing. It’d take a few weeks to get back what they spent. Mike had a sense that wasn’t why Richie was crying though, and the welt on his arm didn’t cover it either. Henry had a penchant for horrible nicknames, for accusations that cut deep, and apparently they’d gotten to Richie this time. Mike didn’t want to think back on the specifics as he wrapped Richie in a hug, told him it was okay. What difference did one homophobic slur make from the hundreds they’d received before? But apparently it did make a difference this time, or Richie wouldn’t have taken it so hard.

Mike wondered about that day a lot, if Henry had discovered a part of Richie that Richie didn’t want to think about himself, or accept. It made no difference to Mike. He held on until Richie felt better, and then a little longer, and they happily made their way down to the Quarry. Richie looked so happy that afternoon, splashing around, his hair looking like a wet mop when he broke the surface of the water. He looked like he was on top of the world, a glimmer in his eyes that never quite diminished, even when he was feeling down. Mike recognized it in photos online, from the red carpet or from Richie’s instagram page. It filled him with fondness.

Mike thought that a happy Richie was one of the best sights in the world. In fact, the happiness in all of his friends’ faces made up for the horrors in life, for the loneliness and pain he endured. Mike was okay with being a watcher, a silent sentinel, if only for the thought of reunion. Like all of his friends, he thought Richie was incredible, a true friend, and wanted nothing more in his 27 years of solitude than to hear Richie Tozier laugh in person, to be himself and be happy with the whole group all together, like they belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please share your thoughts in a comment! <3


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